Searching for Signal
by feralhand
Summary: Vignettes revolving around Cas, featuring Dean, Sam, and company, in a post-angel world.
1. Chapter 1

Cas spends fifty minutes staring at the new cell phone Dean gives him. It's not fifty minutes all at once. It's broken up across the whole day, in the far too frequent times when he's alone. He hasn't used a phone in years, and in the meanwhile the technology has grown even more complicated.

This phone is flat, smooth, lacks buttons and folding parts. Cas makes sure of this, investigating with gentle fingers, when he gets back early to the empty Impala. He finds himself looking around, watching men and women move across the city block, more than looking down at the phone. He almost wants to ask one of them for help, but he worries the one he picks won't know what to do with this phone either. They'll all have to learn together, separately.

Cas doesn't know what it is when it rings the first time. He recognizes the steady, whining beat as an alarm because it resembles the police sirens and emergency bells he hears as he spends more and more time in the city streets. It sounds nothing like the old phone he had in the days leading up the end of the world. Then again, he was usually incorporeal when it rang. He figures it out later, when Dean is griping at him about _picking up, next time_.

It's just Sam and Cas later, leaving the flea market central to the case of the week. They walk until they see a vacancy sign, and Cas says he'll go in and rent the rooms. Sam is a little surprised, a little unsure, but he's tired and he's willing to fall back, to go into the convenience store across the street and pick up a road tripper's dinner.

The motel office is small and the walls are bare. There's one person behind the counter appearing to be equal parts disinterested and expectant of Cas to say and do the right thing in the most expedient manner. He pulls the credit card Sam gave him from his pants' pocket and slides it over the counter, making a _three_ with two fingers and a thumb, shaking his head when the clerk asks _and for how long?_

Cas leaves the door open, waits outside crouched beneath the window and staring at his phone. Sam finds him later—_finds_ because Cas hasn't called with the room number—and offers to show him how to dial out or at least send a text message. "No, I've got it," Cas tells him, and his tone is a tad too firm. Sam backs off and quietly calls Dean and tells them where they're staying.

They eat together, sort of. They discuss the case when Dean gets in. At lights out, Cas heads to the other side of the lot to a single bed room. He only sleeps for a few hours. It's less than four, which is what he understands a human to need because Dean told him so, but he doesn't want to shut his eyes again after _that_ dream. So, in the middle of the night, the only illumination in the room is the light of his phone. He slides one fingertip gingerly across the screen.

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 16, 2013_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is so angry.

"It will be alright," Cas insists for the third time in as many minutes, but it has no effect. Winchester tunnel vision is at play in the way Dean is all hands and force and pressure. Cas' body wants to slouch away from the ancient wallpaper, but one firm palm planted on his shoulder keeps him pinned to the ballroom's rear wall. The chandelier is still spinning, shadows dance around the room, and Dean's not even looking, not really acknowledging the eyes Cas puts on him—the same fierce and cold light eyes Cas has always put on Dean, but now—

Dean's fingers vice over top of Cas' bloodied hand. A nasal breath shudders out of Cas, and he tries to bend and shrink away, but he's already as low as he can go, sprawled on the floor. He grabs Dean's wrist, part in reflex, part in demand, and assures him, "I've got it."

Two days later, Cas decides that laundry is the worst part of being human. He doesn't care that it's an extremely bias decision, nor that he'll probably overturn it in the next week more than once. Right now, laundry is the worst thing he has to do, because everything is stained with his blood.

"Just throw them out, we'll get new ones," Sam tells him when he finds him out of bed and staring at the washing machine.

Cas glances at Sam, careful not to move more than necessary. His shoulder still hurts._ Two days. It still hurts. It'll hurt for a long time._ "No. I want to do this."

Sam's not going to argue, but he is going to make a face. He leans into the small room, grabs a jug from the dinky shelf on the wall, and puts it down next to Cas' unclothed feet. "Might wanna try this."

It smells a little like borax and a lot like bad memories.

"I get it, okay. Same monkey suit since day one. But you're not a monkey anymore. C'mon, we'll hit Goodwill on the way out there, my treat."

Cas starts, only just now aware of Dean lurking in the doorway, and drops the shirt. _Oh. That's what that feels like._

Dean's trying. He has put on his most patient face and is pretending like he's willing to accept a _no_, but they really gotta get going. Rogue reapers tend not to wait.

"I'm staying here," Cas mumbles when he finally pulls his gaze away from Dean. He reaches with his one good arm and fishes the shirt back out of the washer.

Dean doesn't miss a beat. "No dice. You stay, Kevin won't. We need Kevin, so you're coming with us. Head's up!" A burgundy button-up work shirt sails at Cas. He manages to catch it before it can muss up his already messy hair.

It was nothing like the shirt he'd worn for years. The material was softer, slicker, thicker. It was all wrong, and that much showed plainly in Cas' face. Dean was gone before Cas could criticize it, though.

Given a few more seconds of thought, Cas an at least appreciate the color.

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 20, 2013_


	3. Chapter 3

Dean can mourn Cas. He's gotten good at it. That's the problem.

Cas is alive. Really alive, in a way he's never been before. Human. And no, _no_, _that_ is not the problem. That's not a problem at all. It's weird. It's really weird having him around—really around, like all the time. Like no more zapping off when Cas decides he's going to do whatever the hell he wants. He's not making those kinds of decisions anymore, anyway. Dean's convinced Cas doesn't know what he wants, at least outside of making a pest of himself.

"Could I, maybe…" They're heading back to the car and Cas has got that look in his eyes, like he doesn't want to be a bother _but_ he doesn't understand how curiosity kills the cat, so he's going to ask and ask and ask. Except right now, he can't quite get the words out; and Dean doesn't piece it together until they're standing next to the Impala.

Then, Dean's face lights up and he laughs. "No, no-no-no-no-no. You are not driving my car."

Cas can't grasp why it's funny. All he's hearing is Dean telling him he's incompetent. "Dean, I've read every—"

"You wanna learn to drive," Dean says, smiling bitter, "take a class." _Yeah, like that'll ever happen._

Cas throws his hand on the driver's door before Dean can get it open. The midday sun burns in the metal, but Cas doesn't flinch. He hasn't grown of fear of injury, yet; and maybe he never will. Maybe they'll just have this argument a thousand times. "You don't trust me."

It wasn't even a question. They both know the answer. The worst part is, neither of them is surprised.

"Give me a chance. I won't screw this up." Cas is so sure, and Dean is so unfazed. They stalemate for six seconds and then Cas pulls his hand away. He's surprised when the sting doesn't quit, enough to glance at his fingers. "Flight is much more complicated than driving a car," he adds, and it's a good point but his commitment is shot. He's not so sure of himself anymore. Whatever he is, anymore.

Dean pulls the door, and as he's dropping into the seat, he just mutters, "not today." It's the absolute best he can do right now. He's not ready to give Cas a way to zap out on him again. It's wrong. Dean knows it's really wrong, but he needs Cas to stay for now. Dean needs to know Cas will be okay.

Because when he goes—when Cas finally goes—Dean's got this sneaking suspicion that he won't be able to feel it. He won't be able to feel anything. It's a beating he's taken too many times, and it just won't hurt like it should. And it should. If it's not a break in his chest, it's a burn in his throat. He's been down this road so many times. Dean knows how to mourn Cas. It's just that he's gotten good at it. That's the problem.

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 20, 2013_


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel has never written his name in English. He's seen it in Hebrew, although that was a couple thousand years ago and not for any great purpose. He'd just been curious. Today is different.

Using the Latin alphabet, his written name makes Cas think of a seaside forest. It curves at one side, like waves on water, and ripples in little swirls toward thin, tall trees. The sun hangs in the middle.

"Do, uh, Smith," Dean offers, only half audible as he tips his coffee mug to his lips.

Cas tilts his head, trying to imagine _Smith_ on the line next to his name.

"Yeah, 'cuz _Castiel Smith_ sounds _so_ normal," Charlie chips in as she breezes into the kitchen. She leans over the counter by the coffee machine and appraises Cas' penmanship with a little nod. "Why not cut it down to just Cas? Or just pick something else? It's not like this is _for reals_ for reals. What'd you go by before? Emmanuel?"

Dean waves a dismissive hand. "No. Not—no."

Cas glances over his shoulder at Dean and then peers at Charlie with hopeless eyes. "I've already written _Castiel_."

"Oh, well," Charlie says with a shrug. "It's not the last copy in the world. But, uh, if you want, you can use mine. You can be the little brother I never wanted!" She bumps her hip against Cas' leg and winks at Dean. Sometime during Dean's mocking laughter, Charlie goes wide-eyed at the realization that she's just referred to a timeless wavelength being as her _little_ brother.

She clears her throat and wipes her face quickly. "Bradbury. I mean, it's an alias. You don't want my real one. _Trust me_."

Cas looks to Dean for his approval. Maybe not approval. Probably something else.

Definitely something else. Charlie puts her hands up. "Okay, yeah, holla when you're done!" She nabs a bagel and makes good her retreat.

The tension doesn't break until Dean tips his head back and sets down his mug. He leaves his reluctance on that side of the kitchen, strolls across the floor, and pulls the pen out of Cas' hand. Cas lets him take the paper, too, and scribble on it. "The TSA is gonna get grabby with you for this. Might not even let you fly with us." Dean raises his eyebrows and pulls his mouth just so, asking for something. Maybe approval.

Cas searches Dean's expression for a moment, then he relents, checks the paper. "Thank you," he says, breathless, relieved; and he touches Dean's writing with the side of his thumb. Of course he smears the _ester_ bit, it's still wet.

Dean dropped the pen and let it roll. "Yeah, well, we'll get a back up just in case. Can't imagine leaving you at the terminal."

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 20, 2013_


	5. Chapter 5

Dean raises one hand to his ear. "_What_ was that?"

And Cas, he understands aggression, passive or otherwise. The pinch of his brow isn't a mark of suspicion—it's a flinch. The question aimed at him might as well be a swift kick. He doesn't know anymore if he deserves the damage, but he doesn't block, doesn't damn.

Cas speaks louder now, but he wasn't quiet the first time. "I need you."

And Dean, he recognizes the hurt he has inflicted. He knows it intimately and openly. He pulls the sour smile off his lips with one dragging thumb, and he imagines the shade of blue in a bruise he could make on Cas's heart. The two of them would match after a while.

It's like he can see the rack beneath Castiel's body. It's like Dean's soul isn't buoyant enough now that his angel's grace is gone. Dean feels himself sinking back into the heartless shape he held in the Pit.

The tightening of his sleeve drives away his nightmarish vision. Cas's fingers dig into Dean's jacket, physically wresting him from his vices once again.

They share a breath.

A look.

_Yes, that blue, exactly._

Dean's fingertips graze whispers of dark hair. His palm ghosts over Cas's jaw.

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 24, 2013_


	6. Chapter 6

The diner is half-asleep when they walk in the doors. The three of them sit at the counter and pick apart their greasy breakfast plates. Castiel talks at the waiter about the relevance of spoons, how they don't really work with bacon and pancakes. When he starts in on the history of eating utensils, Dean ducks his face into the palm of his hand. Cas doesn't get it. Dean gets that Cas doesn't get it, but it's still kind of embarassing.

The couple in the booth behind them start to talk, and Sam shrugs like he's wrestling with an invisible weight. He knows what it's like to be called _weird_. He twists around in his seat, scrapes his chair against the linoleum, and that throws the diner into a modest silence.

At the gas station off US 13, Cas stares at the pump gun a little too long. He holds it in his hand, half-squeezes the trigger, gets a little freaked out by the small river of gasoline that dribbles over the Impala's bumper. Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a rag. He has to resist the urge to hurl it at the clerk who's gawping in the window. Cas puts a thank you and an apology in the same breath. Dean tells him not to sweat it, and then Cas has something to say about the likelihood of a fallen angel sweating gasoline.

They still bring Cas along on witness interviews and meetings with case authorities. He throws them a curve ball every time he opens his mouth. Sam tells Dean Cas keeps them on their toes, and Dean tells Sam not to do that. They arrive at a status quo of weird wherein the Winchesters spend half their time making up for what Mr. Born-Yesterday can't make out of a normal conversation. It's exhausting, but the brothers won't leave Castiel on the sidelines. He's gotta learn.

On a summery night in small town, Mississippi, Dean throws his first swing on the matter. The bar isn't even that busy, there really isn't anyone there to impress, but this guy figures it's funny as hell that Cas doesn't know what football is. And Cas laughs at his own expense, easy, until the tone of the conversation turns derisive. Dean ignores it until he can't hear the game anymore, until his tumbler is empty, until Cas stops smiling.

The cops think Castiel is pretty weird, too. He's humble and apologetic, and he's got on that killer smile. Nothing can really dampen Cas's spirits while he's playing partners-in-crime with Dean. Johnny Law is arresting an angel (fallen or not, it doesn't matter), and Cas is paying them compliments on the police cruiser's wax job. It's not even the first time he's been in handcuffs, and when the cops pull him past Dean, Cas is purposefully humming a Jefferson Starship song. The whole thing is ridiculous. Dean's arms are twisted so bad his shoulders ache, but he can't fight laughing.

That's when Dean starts to think he's been looking at this all wrong.

Sam bails them out in the morning. They're over the state line an hour later, and they pull into a Mom 'n Pop store thirty minutes after that. Dean's right shoulder is still giving him hell and no, he's not a wuss for wanting some painkillers because he's dislocated that arm before and Sam better stop making that face. While Sam's getting into a tussle with the fritzy coffee machine in the back, Dean skims through the aisles while Cas tries to discern the meaning of the decade old pop song playing over the speakers. They're good for a while, but it so happens that the 99 cent toy shelf backs up to the pharmacy; and something about being in a store makes Castiel want to touch everything.

Dean glances up from a pill bottle of off brand, brightly colored something-or-other as a robotic _whoosh_ noise draws closer to him. Judging by the intensity of his stare, Castiel is having some deep thoughts about that plastic lightsaber. He's holding it wrong, and he's hitting the button without even swinging it—it's a friggin' tragedy, really. Then there's a woman five feet to Dean's left trying to control her son, not-really-whispering things to him about being better behaved than _that weird fella over there_.

"Dean, this isn't what the tag says it is."

Dean reaches out, takes the handle. The plastic kinda sqeaks under Cas's fingers as he lets go. Dean whips the lightsaber around, hitting the button with perfect precision, setting off the sound effects at exactly the right moments. He swings it slow, theatrically demonstrating well practiced prowess, and lands a half-gentle strike against Cas's chest.

Dean smirks. "Yeah, I think it's busted."

The woman is shuffling away. Her kid's giggling.

Cas's eyes are round with understanding. He puts his palm out. "May I?"

A lightsaber in the hands of a (former, whatever) warrior of God? "Hell yeah."

Five minutes later, Cas is sitting on the hood of the Impala, adroitly flipping the toy sword in one hand as if it were the angel blade he'd handled for ages. Dean scoffs at Castiel's swordplay tips, insisting a year in purgatory with nothing but a monster-machete had given him all the know-how he needed. Cas shows off, Dean brags. Somehow, they end up two dollars lighter and another lightsaber heavier, and Sam's calling them children as he leans against the front of the store eating pretzels and finishing his coffee.

They spend the next half hour in the mostly deserted parking lot locked in mock battle. Passersby shoot them weird looks. Dean notices, Cas doesn't, and it's whatever, man, whatever. Everything's good until Sam reappears with a nerf gun and _hell no_ is Team Lightsaber is gonna stand for that.

* * *

_Cross-posted from AO3, May 24, 2013_


End file.
